


What It Sounds Like

by meganhamner99



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: OC, Sad, dutch has a daughter, maggie van der linde, tuberculosis, v sad, v v v sad, van der linde
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2020-10-21 15:40:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20695952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meganhamner99/pseuds/meganhamner99
Summary: i got this request on @failedmy-tbtest on tumblr and used it for a school assignment, so this is the tweaked version! chapter two of this will be the school submission with an oc and dutch's daughter, whereas chapter one is dutch x reader! enjoy!





	1. Dutch x Reader

**Author's Note:**

> chapter two of this will be the school submission with an oc and dutch's daughter (not romantic), whereas chapter one is dutch x reader! enjoy!
> 
> send me requests on @failedmy-tbtest on tumblr!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the original request by an anon: Hey man! Mind if I request Dutch with the Reader getting TB? That Javi headcanon is precious omg

Part of you was wishing that you’d just stuck around camp that day. But if you hadn’t gone…who would have? Strauss had been eyeing Arthur to retrieve the debt, but he’d been busy that afternoon with some business in Valentine. Would he have asked someone else? Javier? Charles maybe? Micah? What would their coughs sound like?

You sat at the saloon running the pad of your finger around the edge of your shot glass as your head ran through the different scenarios. What would Lenny’s cough sound like? Would it be wheezy like Hosea’s or throaty the way Bill clears his throat?

Yours was hollow as though something was trying to come out, but there wasn’t anything at all. You eyed the microscopic drops of blood on the edge of your sleeve. Well, there had apparently been a bit of something.

Your fingers wrapped around the glass before you tilted your head back and poured the liquor between your slightly chapped lips. It burned, but so did your chest when you started to cough a little bit.

You brought your hand up to cover your mouth as the coughing intensified for a moment and it felt like your lungs were going to collapse on you right then and there.

“You alright, ma’am?” The bartender asked with an eyebrow raised, either thinking you were choking on something or not wanting you within a ten-foot radius of his bar. What would his cough sound like?

You nodded and dug through your pockets for the amount of change that the drink had cost, then started heading for the door.

“You have a good day now, mister.” You lazily swung your hand in goodbye to the bartender before pushing open the saloon doors.

People milled around the streets of Valentine as if the world hadn’t just completely changed. But it hadn’t, at least for anyone that wasn’t you. 

You tried to clear your throat as you walked over to where you left The Count hitched in front of the doctor’s, and gave him a good, firm pat on the neck as you grabbed his reins.

The Count was Dutch’s horse, an Albino Arabian that refused to let anyone else in the gang get too close to him, but he’d taken to you even before getting used to Dutch.

“Hey there, boy. Thanks for waitin’ for me.” You shoved one of your feet in the stirrups and hoisted yourself up with a grunt. A soft cough shoved its way out of your chest as you got settled into the saddle before you spurred The Count towards the main road out of town.

Thankfully Dutch’s horse had been to and from Valentine so many times that he just about knew the way back himself, because you were so lost in your thoughts that you weren’t paying attention to where you were going. Your thoughts were wrapped around what the doctor had said, the words repeating in your head like a broken record Dutch once placed in his gramophone.

The leisurely ride back to camp included watching as deer bounded past, tracking the circles the hawks flew above, and listening to herds of sheep being led by their owner. It was peaceful and you couldn’t help but think of how alive everything looked.

By the time you made it back to camp you were exhausted, and quite frankly it panicked you a bit. You hadn’t done much that day but go to the doctor’s, drink at the saloon, and sit on The Count while taking in the scenery.

You hitched up The Count next to Silver Dollar, and gave both horses a solid pat on the shoulder before heading over to one of the tables spread around camp. You dropped into a chair and leaned into it with a soft sigh, though it came out rather wheezy. A pang of sadness and fear fluttered around your chest.

The members of the gang all milled about, doing various things for each other and themselves. You rested your head against an arm you had propped up and just watched them. What would their coughs sound like? 

Karen was over by the girls’ tent with Mary-Beth and Tilly, sewing something by the looks of it. Javier was sitting nearby, strumming a gentle song on his guitar. You tried to think of the name, for he’d told you before, but it escaped you at the moment.

Uncle was over by the horses bickering with the Reverend, who was drunk as usual. Suddenly Uncle turned around and dropped the flap on his union suit, showing Swanson his bare ass, and you couldn’t help but break into a fit of giggles. 

For a moment you were able to forget that itch in your chest that constantly wanted to be scratched, able to forget that breathing felt like a chore, and able to forget that you didn’t have much chance of a future. 

Then you started to cough again.

You were hunched over the table trying to quiet your fit, but it hadn’t been enough as a gentle hand was placed upon your shoulder blade until the coughing subsided. You wiped off the corner of your lips in case there was any blood, then tilted your head up to see who had comforted you.

“Christ, pumpkin. Let’s get you some water or something, come on.” There he was, leaning over you. Hosea had concern etched all over his face and you tried to wave him off, but he wasn’t having any of it. He knew you better than that––you, Dutch, and Hosea being as close as you were and all. 

What would his cough sound like? Similar to the one he already had or would he sound worse?

“I’m fine Hosea, you old dog. Just gettin’ over a cough is all.” You swatted his hand gently as he tried to pry you out of the chair, and he stood there quiet for a moment before pulling up a chair next to yours.

“That’s a hell of a cough you got there,” Hosea reached out and placed his hand on top of yours that was resting on the table. His eyes managed to find the flecks of blood on your sleeve easier than you’d expected. Hosea was a cunning man, but he was getting older in age. “What is it?”

You chuckled a few notes before clearing your throat and taking a deep breath that sounded rather wet, and you looked up at Hosea with a somber expression. In your head, the best case scenario was that nobody caught on to how sick you sounded, but in a gang of 22 people the chances of that were slim.

You tried to swallow past the lump in your throat before saying very quietly, “Tuberculosis. The doctor in Valentine said there was a chance if I get somewhere dry and rest but...you shoulda seen his face Hosea. It wasn’t the face of a man who thinks you got a chance to live. Quite frankly, I don’t feel like I do either.” You scratched the back of your neck and averted your eyes from Hosea. You didn’t think you could stand to see the heartbreak on his warm features. 

“Does he know?” Hose asked ever so softly and you shook your head while clenching your jaw. You could feel your eyes burning and your breath catching, but if you broke down in the middle of camp everyone would find out, and you didn’t think you could handle that right now.

“S’why I went into town. Finally dragged myself to the doctor in Valentine and got the news. I knew it wasn’t gonna be good when I started spittin’ blood.” You rubbed your hands over your face and held them there for a moment, but Hosea pulled one of them away with a sad smile on his face. You could see the tears starting to form in his eyes and it only made you want to cry more.

“You should go talk to him. He’d want to know. I’m glad I do. It means I don’t have to worry about you getting in trouble anymore.” Hosea chuckled bittersweetly and you rolled your eyes with a hoarse laugh. It broke your heart knowing that you weren’t going to outlive Hosea and that he was going to lose someone he cared about yet again. After his wife Bessie had died, Hose had closed himself off a bit for a while, and now he was going to have to mourn you.

You knew you’d have to tell Dutch eventually, it was something you had been thinking about since you left the doctor’s office. You had no idea how you were going to break it to him and how he’d react. It terrified you. 

“I know. Thanks, Hosea.” He helped you to your feet and gave a reassuring pat on your shoulder before sitting back down and pulling a book out of the inside of his coat.

You walked past Karen and the girls, giving them a tired wave as you wandered over to Dutch’s tent. He was leaning up against a pole with a cigar between his lips and a book in hand. You slowed your pace as you watched him, dreading having to disrupt the relaxed expression on his face. You took the moment to memorize his mannerisms: the way his eyebrows pulled together as he read a particularly vexing passage, the subtle nod he would give when he agreed with something to author said.

“You gonna keep starin’ or are you going to actually say something?” Dutch spoke up without taking his eyes off his book, and you flinched a little bit. The pain in your lungs flared as you remembered the way your knees slammed into the ground from coughing so hard.

“I-uh, I’m comin’ over. Jus’ hold your horses for a moment.” You cleared your throat and responded as you took a few steps towards his tent. The feeling was similar to walking towards the edge of a cliff and wanting to look down and see how far the fall was. Each step was a challenge.

“What’s the matter with you?” Dutch’s deep laugh rang in your head as you folded your arms across your chest, trying to look everywhere but Dutch. You didn’t say anything, instead you moved past him and went inside his tent to sit on the cot you shared. You felt like a child about to be scolded for something as you sat there, contemplating how to phrase what came next.

Dutch’s eyes followed you as the thin mattress creaked underneath your weight, and your head was hung low with your hands in your lap as you picked at the skin around your fingertips.

“Sugar? What’s wrong?” His voice had dropped all humor as he set his book down and held his cigar between his fingers. When you heard the bed creak and sink under Dutch’s weight, you doubled over as you hand flew to your mouth to muffle a sob. It was breaking your heart and it was going to break his.

“Miss, I...I’m so sorry. Your cough...it sounds like you have Tuberculosis.” You could hear the doctor’s voice loud and clear in your head. What would his cough sound like?

You could feel Dutch lean away from the sudden movement, but his arm quickly came around your shoulders to try and comfort you. His lips rested against your temple, his thumb rubbing against your shoulder.

“Mags, why-what happened?” He pulled you towards his chest as your shoulders shook with quieted cries. Your lungs were beginning to sear, and you could feel a coughing fit coming on, so you squirmed out of his grasp and turned away from him as you started to cough and gasp for air.

You could feel blood collecting on the inside of your lip and leaking through the corner of your mouth, so you quickly wiped it away before trying to take deep and even breaths. Beside you, Dutch had stilled. You could smell his cigar burning away, but not the sweet scent of tobacco, so he wasn’t puffing on it.

His fingers were suddenly around your wrist and moving it into his line of sight, the bright red liquid contrasting the light linen of your sleeve like a spotlight.

“Dutch, I-” You stopped to let out another small cough, then cleared your throat again. “I’m dying. I’ve got TB...from a feller in Valentine that owed Strauss money.” Your voice sounded raw from the coughing, though as of late you sounded like you constantly had a sore throat. 

Within the tent, no sounds could be heard but the soft thud of Dutch’s cigar hitting the dirt and his boot squashing it out. You turned towards the man you knew like the back of your hand, and saw he had an odd expression on his face. His hands were on his knees as if he were bracing himself, and his body was slightly reclined. Though his eyes gave him away.

“Nonsense, we haven’t come into contact with anyone that’s ill. Hosea, now that old dog I could believe. This wasn’t a very good joke now, darlin’.” His voice was stern but his gaze wouldn’t leave you, quietly begging you to start laughing and tell him he should’ve fallen for it. Each second that passed where you didn’t, his body visibly grew more tense. You resisted the urge to look away, to run away so that nobody had to deal with this.

“I’m so sorry, baby.” Your lower lip began to tremble as Dutch’s eyes bounced around your face, trying to look for some sort of tell that you were lying. He pulled you back into a hug and held you tightly. You clung to your love’s embrace, and the immovable Dutch Van der Linde held his like the world was going to end.

“Oh darlin’, no you don’t-you don’t have to apologize. I’m only sorry I didn’t notice sooner.” Dutch tried to comfort you, his voice shaking for the first time since coming down from Colter. You inhaled and you could feel Dutch wince from his chin resting on top of your head. You hadn’t noticed how bad you’d sounded until the doctor had told you.

“Your cough...it sounds like you have Tuberculosis.” You had never heard somebody with Tuberculosis before. At least you thought you hadn’t but Thomas Downes had been coughing and spitting and bleeding all over you as you’d beat him for money.

“Is it-are you sure you’re d...not well?” Dutch asked you hesitantly, pausing over the word ‘dying’ as if it were cursed. You bit her lip and nodded, shifting your gaze towards the roof of the tent to try and prevent yourself from breaking down again. It wouldn’t bode well for either of them to hear your lungs flare up.

“I’m afraid. I don’t-I don’t know what’ll happen to me.” You stumbled over your words, trying to articulate them without beginning to cry again, but you were failing. Dutch’s hand moved up and down your back slowly, something he always did whenever he needed comfort but didn’t want to seem emotional.

“Have faith, darlin’. No matter what, we will...we will be alright.” He sounded so confident in himself that you almost believed him. Almost.

As you sat there in his arms, tears streaming down you face and fear making your heart pound, you couldn’t help but think:

What would his cough sound like?


	2. (non-romantic) Father and Daughter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the school submitted version where it's dutch and his daughter and its not romantic!

Part of Maggie was wishing that she’d just stuck around camp that day. But if she hadn’t gone…who would have? The loan shark of the gang, Herr Strauss, had been eyeing Arthur to retrieve the debt, but he’d been busy that afternoon with some business in Valentine. Would he have asked someone else? Javier? Charles maybe? Micah? What would their coughs sound like?

Magdalene sat at the saloon running the pad of her finger around the edge of her shot glass as her head ran through the different scenarios. What would Lenny’s cough sound like? Would it be wheezy like Hosea’s or throaty the way Bill clears his throat?

Hers was hollow as though something was trying to come out, but there wasn’t anything at all. Maggie eyed the microscopic drops of blood on the edge of her sleeve. Well, there had apparently been a bit of something.

Her fingers wrapped around the glass before she tilted her head back and poured the liquor between her slightly chapped lips. It burned, but so did Maggie's chest when she started to cough a little bit.

She brought her hand up to cover her mouth as the coughing intensified for a moment and it felt like her lungs were going to collapse on her right then and there.

“You alright, ma’am?” The bartender asked with an eyebrow raised, either thinking she was choking on something or not wanting her within a ten-foot radius of his bar. What would his cough sound like?

She nodded and dug through her pockets for the amount of change that the drink had cost, then started heading for the door.

“You have a good day now, mister.” Magdalene lazily swung her hand in goodbye to the bartender before pushing open the saloon doors.

People milled around the streets of Valentine as if the world hadn’t just completely changed. But it hadn’t, at least for anyone that wasn’t Maggie. 

She tried to clear her throat as she walked over to where she left The Count hitched in front of the doctor’s, and gave him a good, firm pat on the neck as she grabbed his reins.

The Count was her father’s horse, an Albino Arabian that refused to let anyone else in the gang get too close to him, but he’d taken to Maggie even before getting used to Dutch.

“Hey there, boy. Thanks for waitin’ for me.” Maggie shoved one of her feet in the stirrups and hoisted herself up with a grunt. A soft cough shoved its way out of her chest as she got settled into the saddle before she spurred The Count towards the main road out of town.

Thankfully her father’s horse had been to and from Valentine so many times that he just about knew the way back himself, because Magdalense was so lost in her thoughts that she wasn’t paying attention to where she was going. Her thoughts were wrapped around what the doctor had said, the words repeating in her head like a broken record Dutch once placed in his gramophone.

The leisurely ride back to camp included watching as deer bounded past, tracking the circles the hawks flew above, and listening to herds of sheep being led by their owner. It was peaceful and she couldn’t help but think of how alive everything looked.

By the time she made it back to camp Maggie was exhausted, and quite frankly it panicked her a bit. She hadn’t done much that day but go to the doctor’s, drink at the saloon, and sit on The Count while taking in the scenery.

Maggie hitched up The Count next to Hosea’s horse Silver Dollar, and gave both horses a solid pat on the shoulder before heading over to one of the tables spread around camp. She dropped into a chair and leaned into it with a soft sigh, though it came out rather wheezy. A pang of sadness and fear fluttered around her chest.

The members of the gang all milled about, doing various things for each other and themselves. Magdalene rested her head against an arm she had propped up and just watched them. What would their coughs sound like? 

A singing Karen was over by the girls’ tent with Mary-Beth and Tilly, sewing something by the looks of it. Javier was sitting nearby, strumming a gentle song on his guitar. Maggie tried to think of the name, for he’d told her before, but it escaped her at the moment.

Uncle, who nobody knew who he was related to, was over by the horses bickering with the gang’s Reverend, who was drunk as usual. Suddenly Uncle turned around and dropped the flap on his union suit, showing Swanson his bare ass, and Maggie couldn’t help but break into a fit of giggles. 

For a moment she was able to forget that itch in her chest that constantly wanted to be scratched, able to forget that breathing felt like a chore, and able to forget that she didn’t have much chance of a future. 

Then she started to cough again.

Maggie was hunched over the table trying to quiet her fit, but it hadn’t been enough as a gentle hand was placed upon her shoulder blade until the coughing subsided. She wiped off the corner of her lips in case there was any blood, then tilted her head up to see who had comforted her.

“Christ, pumpkin. Let’s get you some water or something, come on.” Her father’s closest friend and confidant, was leaning over Maggie. Hosea had concern etched all over his face and she tried to wave him off, but he wasn’t having any of it. He knew her better than that, he’d practically raised Maggie alongside Dutch after all. 

What would his cough sound like? Similar to the one he already had or would he sound worse?

“I’m fine Hosea, you old dog. Just gettin’ over a cough is all.” She swatted his hand gently as he tried to pry her out of the chair, and he stood there quiet for a moment before pulling up a chair next to hers.

“That’s a hell of a cough you got there,” Hosea reached out and placed his hand on top of Maggie’s that was resting on the table. His eyes managed to find the flecks of blood on her sleeve easier than she’d expected. Hosea was a cunning man, but he was getting older in age. “What is it?”

She chuckled a few notes before clearing her throat and taking a deep breath that sounded rather wet, and Maggie looked up at Hosea with a somber expression. In her head, the best case scenario was that nobody caught on to how sick she sounded, but in a gang of 22 people the chances of that were slim.

Maggie tried to swallow past the lump in her throat before saying very quietly, “Tuberculosis. The doctor in Valentine said there was a chance if I get somewhere dry and rest but...you shoulda seen his face Hosea. It wasn’t the face of a man who thinks you got a chance to live. Quite frankly, I don’t feel like I do either.” She scratched the back of her neck and averted her eyes from Hosea. Maggie didn’t think she could stand to see the heartbreak on his warm features. He was like a second father to her, and to him she was the daughter he’d never had.

“Does he know?” Hose asked ever so softly and Maggie shook her head while clenching her jaw. She could feel her eyes burning and her breath catching, but if she broke down in the middle of camp everyone would find out, and she didn’t think she could handle that right now.

“S’why I went into town. Finally dragged myself to the doctor in Valentine and got the news. I knew it wasn’t gonna be good when I started spittin’ blood.” Magdalene rubbed her hands over her face and held them there for a moment, but Hosea pulled one of them away with a sad smile on his face. She could see the tears starting to form in his eyes and it only made Maggie want to cry more.

“You should go talk to him. He’d want to know. I’m glad I do. It means I don’t have to worry about you getting in trouble anymore.” Hosea chuckled bittersweetly and Maggie rolled her eyes with a hoarse laugh. It broke her heart knowing that she wasn’t going to outlive Hosea and that he was going to lose someone yet again. After his wife Bessie had died, Hose had closed himself off a bit for a while, and now he was going to have to mourn Maggie.

She knew she’d have to tell Dutch eventually, it was something Maggie had been thinking about since she left the doctor’s office. She had no idea how she was going to break it to him and how he’d react. It terrified her. Her mother had been shot by a rival gang when she was a teenager and Dutch had absolutely lost it. The next day he’d retaliated and killed at least 20 of their members with some of his own men.

“I know. Thanks, Hosea.” He helped Maggie to her feet and gave a reassuring pat on the shoulder before sitting back down and pulling a book out of the inside of his coat.

Maggie walked past Karen and the girls, giving them a tired wave as she wandered over to her father’s tent. He was leaning up against a pole with a cigar between his lips and a book in hand. Magdalene slowed her pace as she watched her father, dreading having to disrupt the relaxed expression on his face.

“You gonna keep starin’ or are you going to actually say something?” Dutch spoke up without taking his eyes off his book, and Maggie flinched a little bit. The pain in her lungs flared she remembered the way her knees slammed into the ground from coughing so hard.

“I-uh, I’m comin’ over. Jus’ hold your horses for a moment.” She cleared her throat and responded as she took a few steps towards his tent. The feeling was similar to walking towards the edge of a cliff and wanting to look down and see how far the fall was. Each step was a challenge.

“What’s the matter with you?” Dutch’s deep laugh rang in Maggie’s head as she folded her arms across her chest, trying to look everywhere but at her father. She didn’t say anything, instead she moved past him and went inside his tent to sit on his cot. He’d always had the most comfortable accommodations as the leader of the gang, so on especially harsh nights Dutch would let Maggie put her bedroll under the protection of his tent. 

Dutch’s eyes followed his daughter as the thin mattress creaked underneath her weight, and her head was hung low with her hands in her lap as she picked at the skin around her fingertips.

“Maggie, honey? What’s wrong?” His voice had dropped all humor as he set his book down and held his cigar between his fingers. When Magdalene heard the bed creak and sink under her father’s weight, she doubled over as her hand flew to her mouth to muffle a sob.

“Miss, I...I’m so sorry. Your cough...it sounds like you have Tuberculosis.” She could hear the doctor’s voice loud and clear in her head. What would his cough sound like?

She could feel Dutch lean away from the sudden movement, but his arm quickly came around her shoulders to try and comfort her. “Mags, why-what happened?” He pulled her towards his chest as her shoulders shook with quieted cries. Her lungs were beginning to sear, and she could feel a coughing fit coming on, so she squirmed out of his grasp and turned away from him as she started to cough and gasp for air.

Maggie could feel blood collecting on the inside of her lip and leaking through the corner of her mouth, so she quickly wiped it away before trying to take deep and even breaths. Beside her, Dutch had stilled. She could smell his cigar burning away, but not the sweet scent of tobacco, so he wasn’t puffing on it.

His fingers were suddenly around her wrist and moving it into his line of sight, the bright red liquid contrasting the light linen of her sleeve like a spotlight.

“Pa, I-” She stopped to let out another small cough, then cleared her throat again. “I’m dying. I’ve got TB...from a feller in Valentine that owed Strauss money.” Magdalene’s voice sounded raw from the coughing, though as of late she sounded like she constantly had a sore throat. 

Within the tent, no sounds could be heard but the soft thud of Dutch’s cigar hitting the dirt and his boot squashing it out. Maggie turned towards her father, who had an odd expression on his face. His hands were on his knees as if he were bracing himself, and his body was slightly reclined. His eyes gave him away.

“Nonsense, you’re too young to be ill. Hosea, now that old dog I could believe. This wasn’t a very good joke now, Mags.” His voice was stern but his gaze wouldn’t leave Maggie, quietly begging her to start laughing and tell him he should’ve fallen for it. Each second that passed where she didn’t his body visibly grew more tense. She resisted the urge to look away, to run away so that nobody had to deal with this.

“I’m so sorry, Pa.” Maggie’s lower lip began to tremble as Dutch’s eyes bounced around her face, trying to look for some sort of tell that she was lying. He pulled her back into a hug and held her tightly. As Maggie clung to her father’s embrace, and the immovable Dutch Van der Linde held his daughter like the world was going to end, she couldn’t help the thought that ran through her head.

What would his cough sound like?


End file.
